I can’t think of a more fitting way to kick off Mental Health Awareness Month than by sharing the first essay I ever wrote about my first panic attack—and the chronic anxiety that followed. I wrote it in 2014, while I was an editor at HarpersBazaar.com (it was recently removed from the site, so I wanted to preserve it here). It was the height of the personal essay boom—first-person stories were going viral on Facebook, and we were always looking for more. So I volunteered to write about my experience with anxiety.

At the time, I didn’t fully grasp the leap I was taking in sharing something so personal. It was one thing for people to know that I had anxiety, but to share the origin story was far more vulnerable—it wasn’t something I openly talked about. I felt it could be an important moment, given how much stigma still existed around anxiety, but a part of me was nervous about how it would be received—would people think I was crazy?

In reality, the response was overwhelmingly positive—so many people shared that they saw themselves in my story. Friends from high school and college had reached out to me, opening up about their own struggles. Sure, a few Facebook comments took issue with my use of medication, but I wasn’t as phased by that. What stayed with me was that when I opened up, others felt safe to share their experiences as well.

That’s when it clicked. There was a real need for stories about mental health.

Anxiety is one of those experiences that, unless you’ve lived it, is almost impossible to truly relate to. And even then, it’s deeply personal—the triggers, the way it moves through the body. To an outsider—or even someone who doesn’t share your particular flavor of anxiety—it can look like an irrational worry. But from within, it can hijack you, pulling you into a spiral you don’t fully understand.

It’s been twelve years since I wrote this essay below, and anxiety is something I will likely always live with. It ebbs and flows—sometimes it feels crushing, other times almost nonexistent. Over the years, my anxiety has also shapeshifted. At times, it feels like playing a game of whack-a-mole—just as I get one fear under control, another appears. But at the core, the thread that has remained consistent is my discomfort with being out of control, especially where my emetophobia is concerned. That’s still a topic I find too uncomfortable to unpack publicly—but it’s something I’m actively working on in therapy.

Anxiety is so common now that I don't feel embarrassed talking about it, whether it's with friends, acquaintances, or coworkers. Who doesn't get anxious? But when my chronic anxiety began at 11 years old, it didn't feel so normal at all—it turned what I believed to be my very "normal" life completely upside down.

As a child, I was quite outgoing. I studied ballet and tap dance, I played the violin, and then switched to the clarinet. I sang in my school chorus, and I performed in school plays. I couldn’t relate to the other kids who complained of pre-show jitters. What was there to be nervous about? It wasn't a feeling I ever experienced because I loved being on stage. But one day, like the flip of a switch, everything changed. Suddenly, I was frightened to speak in front of a 25-person classroom, let alone perform on stage before a full auditorium.

While anxiety can spark at any point in life, not everyone experiences a definitive moment-in-time trigger as I did. Art Markman, the professor of psychology at the University of Texas at Austin and author of Smart Change, explains that, "when there is a key triggering event, then the anxiety is often associated with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD). However, there are plenty of people who suffer from long-term anxiety that do not have a clear source." I fell into the former, and I still remember that defining moment that triggered my first panic attack like it was yesterday. 

It was January 1998, the second day back from holiday break, when a classmate threw up on the bus en route to school. Like every other kid present, I was grossed out, but brushed it off. As the day went on, though, I felt more and more consumed by the incident. It was playing on loop in my mind.

The next day, I couldn’t go to school. I couldn’t go the day after that either. I stayed home for three days, convincing myself that I, too, might get sick if I went to school.

When my parents had had enough of my crying wolf—surprise: I never actually got sick—they made me go back to class. I don’t know exactly how I got through those early days, but I do know many of them ended in the nurse’s office. I used that as an escape whenever I felt anxiety rising from my belly. When I had exhausted that option, I started to confide in the school guidance counselor. When my situation wasn't improving, I was referred to the school psychologist, who pitched the idea of putting me on medication to alleviate my anxiety. 

If the choice had been up to me, I probably would’ve chosen the medication route. My anxiety was deeply affecting my day-to-day. Naturally, my Jamaican immigrant parents, who were not into taking meds even for a common cold, wanted me to work through it on my own.

When I finally started to regain a little sense of stability and safety, my guidance counselor—someone I had come to deeply trust and rely on—left the school. In response, my mom found me a therapist. I wasn’t particularly excited by this development, and I didn’t really like my therapist—but I listened to her. Still, I couldn’t shake the confusion and sadness about what was happening inside my body, especially as my friends seemed to be moving through normal teenage life with much more ease.

With time, my therapist helped me to develop coping methods to get me through my days as an anxiety-ridden teenager. I kept a pack of Altoid mints on me at all times for when I was convinced I felt sick to my stomach. When I had to deliver a presentation in front of the class, I would ask my teacher, in private, if I could go first, which was daunting on its own, but gave me less time to sit through class with my heart pounding out of my chest. I meditated at night and visualized doing whatever was causing me stress. 

I really relied on these "safety behaviors" as Markman describes them. He said, "In its most extreme form, obsessive compulsive disorder (OCD) involves elaborate safety-behavior routines that someone performs to help them reduce their anxiety. The potential problem with safety behaviors is that people learn that the behavior is the thing that gets them through the fear, rather than facing the anxiety-provoking situation itself." 

My mother was also a constant cheerleader. “This too shall pass,” she’d often say to me. She definitely gave me a lot of tough love, but she also assured me I was stronger than the bad thoughts inside my head. She pushed me to face my fears of the school bus. After the vomiting incident, I could not get back on the bus. I was completely reliant on her to drive me to school each morning and pick me up in the afternoon, on top of her two jobs. 

Eventually, though, my mother challenged me to get back on the school bus (I did, and then she agreed to keep driving me until I got my license), and I eventually got back on stage and joined my high school’s dance team. 

The school bus wasn’t the only form of transportation I avoided, though. My emetophobia—the fear of vomiting—was at the center of much of my anxiety. I was also deeply afraid of airplanes, though it wasn’t so much a fear of getting sick (even if worrying that I might get so anxious I’d make myself sick was always in the back of my mind), as it was a fear of dying in a plane crash. At their core, both my fear of flying and of vomiting were rooted in the same thing: a fear of being out of control.

I spent years avoiding any situations that would involve traveling by plane. I never went on spring break with my friends or studied abroad. I only got on a plane when absolutely necessary, i.e., my brother's wedding in 2004 and the birth of his first child in 2008—to which I spent the entire flight in tears with my head in my mother's lap.

It wasn't until 2012, when I was asked to go to Miami’s Art Basel for work, that I realized I needed to make an honest effort to kick my anxiety. 

I hadn't been on a plane in almost four years. 

The week leading up to my work trip was one of the most agonizing weeks of my life. Every night, I would lie awake in the middle of the night thinking about the impending trip and my mortality. The only reason why I was even able to say yes to the trip is that my mother agreed to accompany me. At 25, I had never even been on an airplane by myself, and I knew I wasn’t ready to start in front of my work colleagues. After talking with my boss, she allowed me to make my own travel arrangements, which also involved me securing a prescription for Xanax. It wasn’t a cure-all, but it helped to suppress the intense panic that felt like it would make my chest burst open.

This work trip was pivotal for me. My nervous system had been pushed to its limit in the lead-up, and by the time I arrived in Miami, I was in an intense state of fatigue that lingered throughout the entire trip. It was a terrible feeling that I never wanted to feel again, so I made a promise to myself: I was going to work through this fear. I didn’t want it to stand in the way of future work opportunities. Like other fears I had already faced, I knew it would only get easier with practice—and with continuing to take small, intentional steps toward it.

I got back on a plane about two months later to go back to Florida with my dad (who was maybe a bit less comforting to travel with than my mom). Two months after that, I traveled across the country for the first time with a trusted friend. Eventually, working my way up to an international flight just four months later. When I put my mind to something, I really commit. 

So, by the time my second trip to Miami Art Basel came around, I was able to fly alone for the very first time. I still felt anxious, of course, but I didn't feel the need to take any medication. At that point, I had faith in my ability to survive a three-hour flight, chemical-free. I also had a whole new set of coping strategies beyond medication. I would make playlists of music I loved to keep me grounded, I used breathing exercises like the 6-second breath my therapist taught me, and I started bringing adult coloring books with me, which gave me something simple and absorbing to focus on if my mind started to spiral.

I’m finishing this story as I embark on my second cross-Atlantic journey sans Xanax. I would never say that I’ve completely “conquered” my flying anxiety (just as I haven’t conquered my emetophobia). I expect I will likely live with both for as long as I live. And yet, I don’t let them stop me from doing the things I need and want to do.

As a former therapist once told me, the goal isn’t to stop being afraid—it’s to be afraid and do it anyway.

It’s back! As always, the highlight of this month is curating a collection of products I’ve tried and loved (or have been meaning to try) that have become essential parts of my self-care and wellbeing rituals. This year’s selection includes my favorite skincare, super-soft pajamas, and a moody candle for slowing down at night, along with a dry-brushing body brush to get things flowing and a meditation app for grounding. I’ve also included The Brick (to help you stay off your phone) and a red light night light to support better sleep. I wanted this to feel like a small reset kit for everyday life—things that help you come back to yourself in simple, intentional ways.

ENTER THE GIVEAWAY HERE. This is open to readers in the US, Canada, and the UK. There will be one winner each week, and the winner will be announced on Sundays.

Antler Carry-On Luggage, How to Manifest Book by Lacy Phillips, The Brick, Alice Mushroom Chocolate, Stripe & Stare Short Pajama Set, Helight Red Light Sleep Device, Lavune N˚03 Nightcap Candle, The Open: Breathwork + Meditation Subscription, Sofie Pavitt Face Clear Skin Trial Set, LBDO essensual vibe, Gravel & Gold Hack Your Nervous System Card Deck, De La Heart The Body Brush.